


A Line in the Dirt[RL]/A Free Man[SS]

by valis2



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-05
Updated: 2006-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 22:25:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valis2/pseuds/valis2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Remus is human.  Sometimes Remus is an animal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Line in the Dirt

_The wood is full of shining eyes  
The wood is full of creeping feet  
The wood is full of tiny cries  
You must not go to the wood at night  
\- _The Magic Wood_, Henry Treece_

Sometimes he can feel the fur, itching, crawling, as if a knife could reveal it underneath his skin. He forces himself not to scratch.

As a child he would wake in the forest, twigs poking his ribs. Crushed shells of birds' eggs on his fingers, yolk sticky and glutinous on his face, his fingers aching, hot and swollen.

Every moon shatters him in a new and heartless manner. Every moon he must resign himself: sometimes his heart is the heart of an animal. Sometimes his lungs expel brutish, grunting air.

Hermione is busy, more often than not, and cannot always brew the Wolfsbane for him. Few others will. He chains himself, and each time entertains thin glass hopes that it will be different.

He tries not to think. Tries to keep moving forward. He visits the Burrow, accepts invitations to Weasley events, though he winces each time he remembers he nearly killed one of them. The _beast_ nearly killed one of them. The beast, lurking sulkily in his own blood, cracking bones and splitting skin once each moon, his body letting the wolf take him, betraying him. The blankness of those nights is like frosted glass; he can recall nothing but the cold, its opaque white frustrating him. Hours flash by in a heartbeat, and he wakes without feeling rested, knowing that the last thought before this one was the thought of an animal.

He is afraid to ask Severus. Hidden under moon after moon is the memory of blood on his hands that wasn't his own.

When he keeps his mind he is careful not to move. Not to betray himself by learning the usurper's body. He will not submit. He will not howl. There must be a line that he can draw, a line for preservation, a line for lucidity and reason.

The moon stretches him. Pulls him so thin he breaks, each and every time.

He dreams of teeth, his father shouting, the cold, implacable witnessing forest.

Another wedding, Tonks sparing him a single glance before the ring is set upon her finger. Charlie does not turn into an animal. Charlie cages animals. Charlie can love her completely because he is always himself.

The Burrow is a lively place, celebrations linger in the air, he drinks too much. Liquor is a rush, pulling him into the now with unsteady hands. He likes now. It isn't empty. He remembers dancing wildly about the room before everything gathered into a miasma of color and sound and swirled into nothingness.

He dreams of the rush of the wilderness, all scent and liquid and sharp. More dreams he will deny. More dreams he must forget.

Molly serves eggs at breakfast, and he cannot stop the bile which swamps him, the sudden flash of eggshells crunching in his teeth. "They're birds," he thinks, "not--"

He is sick all the same.

It cannot last forever. His father taught him that with the snap of bone. The line is dancing closer and closer, he can feel it looping in upon him, implacable and sharp.


	2. A Free Man

_Pull out his eyes,  
Apologize,  
Apologize,  
Pull out his eyes._  
-A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_, James Joyce_

I have all the dreams that matter, now, spilling from my fingers, slippery and pale. No green flashes.

I taste nothing. The neutralizer that saves my life also makes every meal the same. It tastes of dust. Scourgify. Powdered glass.

This hated house is my home now, and none can take it from me. It's not a comfort.

A few of the old families still purchase my potions. I am nothing if not discreet, now. They know I have no one to tell; the Galleons are cursed as many times as they are not. They scorn my name in public, turn a cold shoulder, but in the dark, at my doorstep, they shiver and beg for Amortentia.

I brew when I'm able, when the sharp taste of whiskey fails me. I brew, and if they're used for sleeping, for forcing, or for killing, I don't want to know. Let them find their own way.

I wanted a name once. I listened to a song of power once. I owe nothing now. Not to Potter. Freedom had its price, paid with Potter's testimony, paid with a messy, twisting betrayal.

When we were both too young and clever Regulus told me that betrayal is either cowardice, or bravery, never both. I remember how he died, puffed up, lips blue, eyes swollen shut. His last word to me was _coward_. Lucius laughed at that. After all, it was my brave poison, suffocating him.

Sometimes I dream of drowning. The water is cold. The Dark Lord and the Headmaster both offer me their hands, and I let myself slip to the depths.

I would tell Regulus the truth now, were he around to hear it, that betrayal is both cowardice and bravery, madness and sanity, armor and bare skin, that it takes root in the hand, itching underneath the knuckles. A creeping vine, never flowering, only blackening.

Knockturn Alley, purchasing ingredients. Lupin taps me on the shoulder. I try not to wince. I can see the fur seeping through the skin, even if everyone else pretends not to. His expression is ridiculous, of course, though he looks better on the surface than he has in a long time. Perhaps Potter is siphoning him money from his vast storehouse of wealth. I remind myself that I don't care.

He babbles about Weasleys and a wedding and...then he is staring at _my_ robes. Staring at the filthy hem, the patched up tears, the hole I hadn't noticed before. When he looks up again his eyes dare to offer his careless pity. I, who have hoarded so carefully my vials of wrath. His pity is acid in my mouth, and though it's different than dust, it's just as unwelcome.

He asks me to brew Wolfsbane for him, naming a price that is more than fair. It is...tempting. But I will not tolerate another master. I don't care for his fairness. Let the roof rot. I know his charity, a new prank, the same old hurt, slipping between the ribs to squeeze my stomach. I spit and sneer.

His look is sadness, pity, intermingled, and I want to lash out, only I already have.

"Think about it," he says. "Please."

That word pricks me, draws blood. "I don't have the ingredients." My face grows horribly hot. I want nothing more than to Apparate. Even the sickly emptiness of the drawing room would be preferable to this.

He steps closer, but I refuse to back away. I will not flinch. He murmurs, "There's still time, Severus," putting warm coins into my unresisting hand, his fingers calloused and rough. "The full moon is a week away." He looks up into my eyes again, and I see hope, as fragile as an eggshell.


End file.
